


tacit

by kirael



Series: one-shots [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirael/pseuds/kirael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot in the life of Dean and Castiel.</p><p>Set early season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tacit

**Author's Note:**

> some language. mostly the possibly unnecessary use of f-bombs and words that can be taken to mean fecal matter.

It's another one of those nights.

It's after a hunt, when things have quieted down and they'd hauled ass to get to a motel in another state before someone could find the body they'd left behind. Dean clutches a bottle of whiskey and chugs it down, not really caring about how drunk he gets. Sam is passed out on the bed behind him, still dressed in the FBI outfit from earlier that day, not bothering to take it off before announcing, "Wake me up at 6," and falling asleep.

Dean's shaking is minuscule, but it feels like a goddamn earthquake as he grips the bottle a little too hard and it slips from his hands, shatters, splintering into a million pieces. Sam fidgets, turns over, but he doesn't wake up, too used to this sound to think anything of it.

"Fuck," Dean says under his breath as he steps out from the chair and leans down to pick up the pieces. He's 30, and he feels like an old man, like that time a poker game gone wrong bent time and gave him an extra 50 or so years. "God-fucking-damnit."

"Dean."

"Fuck off. It's too early for any of your bullshit."

Dean doesn't look at the angel, but he'll swear on his baby that Cas is doing his weird head-tilt thing, checking his internal clock and right about now he'll be saying-

"It's 2 AM, Dean. I think this still qualifies as night."

There it is, right on schedule.

Dean brandishes his middle finger wildly and finally moves to glare at Cas. Cas is as intense as always, blue eyes smoldering and practically glowing under the dim lighting of the room. "It's the AM, Cas. That means it's morning."

Cas blinks, and Dean can almost the gears in his head whirring, classifying this new piece of information about humans and their strange quirks. "Of course, Dean," he finally says, still puzzled, but willing to give Dean the benefit of the doubt.

"Any new information, Apocalypse-wise?" Dean asks, though he already knows the answer the moment the thought formed. 

Cas's face shifts minutely, and Dean thinks it's frustration now. Cas still looks stoic, but Dean has known him long enough to recognize his movements, his small shows of emotion that few people are able to read. "No, nothing," Castiel says, and his voice rumbles like the few seconds of time before a train is visible, screeching across the tracks and shaking the very air. "I have not been able to find God, and my siblings have not been on the move. There have been no potent demonic omens either."

Dean's only reaction is a resigned sigh. The news is quieter than he had imagined. (With their luck, it's perfectly probable that a fucking dragon had flew across Maine, leaving fiery craters in its wake or something, but nothing. Just the usual hunts.) "How're you? Grace holding up okay?"

"I'm fine," is the reply, and if Cas sounds ten times as weary as before, no one mentions it. "Dean," Cas says hesitantly, "you need ample sleep."

But Dean isn't paying attention because he's too busy staring at the way Cas's hair is disheveled, more so than usual, and the way his face flushes a bright red. "Hey," he says, interrupting Cas's "if you're going to hunt monsters you need to keep your strength up," "where the fuck were you?"

Cas twitches. "I was searching for God."

"Where?”

"The Arctic Circle."

"Jesus," Dean sighs, moving forward to brush a lock of hair out of Cas's eyes. "Don't go searching where you'll get hypothermia or something. Don't want to take care of a sick person."

"I'm an angel," Cas says, as if Dean needs reminding. 

"Yeah, and your grace is fading and who knows when you'll be basically human? If you get stuck and you can't fly back, we don't want to have to go all the way to the Arctic Circle to pick you up. Stay in North America."

The crease in Cas's forehead deepens. "I highly doubt God would confine Himself to this part of the world."

Dean shakes his head. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Because _I'm_ confining you to this part of the world."

Cas gets that look on his face again. That look that Dean has taken to mean "look at this puny human trying to defy me and order me around." Or, alternatively, his smiling face. But it fades quickly, and in its place is a fondness, an endless amusement. "Of course, Dean," he says for the second time. "I'll do my best."

And Dean thinks that that's the best he's going to get, so he crosses his arms over his chest and nods gruffly. "You better."

Cas smiles, a small upwards tilt of the mouth, and there's something that sounds like the rustling of fabric, a tear in the world, and he's gone. 

Dean grins, slow and easy, as he finishes cleaning up the pieces of the bottle. And as he settles into bed to sleep, he finds himself wondering why he ever picked up that bottle in the first place.


End file.
